


Azure

by scarecrow_horses



Series: Ficathons and Challenges [19]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-14
Updated: 2020-04-14
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:27:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23656069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarecrow_horses/pseuds/scarecrow_horses
Summary: It's the end of the world, and Spike and Xander are doing just fine.  Sort of.
Relationships: Xander Harris/Spike
Series: Ficathons and Challenges [19]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2072577
Comments: 2
Kudos: 29





	Azure

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published for the Sweet Charity auction, and for Witling, way back in September of 2007. Originally in two parts, now made one, with minimal format editing.
> 
> This work is as complete as it's ever going to get, but it is, sadly, not actually *finished*. Drugs and psychic powers and Snow Queens, oh my!  
> Beta'd by Darkhavens.
> 
> The poem Spike imagines describing Drusilla is [The Rime of the Ancient Mariner](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/43997/the-rime-of-the-ancient-mariner-text-of-1834) by Samuel Taylor Coleridge.

.

.

_And the first thing I said to him, as we woke up in the Limbo tub was, "Hergal, why do you always do it like that? It **hurts**."_

_"Pain is a reality," Hergal said, and turned out his communication light._

Tanith Lee – _'Don't Bite the Sun'_

When it all happened, some called it the Rapture. Christ finally taking pity, and calling his children home. But more than the godly vanished in that long, strange night, and sinners and saints alike were left to crawl over the face of the harrowed Earth. The Hellmouths themselves – even the closed one in California – opened again. But this time they weren't hidden pits but yawning maws, spewing out as much horror as they drew in. 

Humans, being the adaptable little primates that they were, survived. Some even flourished. And some escaped, because for every thing in the universe, there is an opposite, and if Hellmouths gaped into the infernal depths then surely, somewhere, was the sweet pursing of a kiss that drew you to Heaven. 

Or, at least, somewhere with cable.

"Honey, I'm home," Spike called, and couldn't contain the little rictus of a smirk. He fumbled at the switch and pushed it up, flooding the area near the door with a weak, amber light. The rest of the factory floor receded into shadow and Spike leaned for a moment against the door, eyes shut.

Then he pushed himself upright and pulled down the crossbar – slotted the padlock into place and clicked it shut. "Fire hazard, that," he muttered to himself. In the spirit of not caring, he lit a cigarette, grimacing at the stale flavor of it. Tobacco didn't grow so well anymore. He wandered away from the door, dodging greasy chain falls and islands of machinery that had rusted into tangled lumps. At the back was a listing staircase and Spike went up it two steps at a time, fingers skipping lightly along the railing. 'Upstairs' was mostly just a gallery that went all around the interior of the building, but one corner was deep enough to shelter living space, and that was where they had nested.

 _Birds in their little nests agree,_ Spike thought, and wheezed out smoke in a ragged laugh. He reached up and pulled the chain that hung just overhead, and another light came on, a dim cobwebbed bulb that swung restlessly in his wake.

"Go 'way," a voice mumbled, and Spike bounced down onto the layered heap of mattress and foam and bedding, making the whole thing shiver.

"Now, now – that any way to talk to Daddy?"

"Not my _daddy._ Freak." The figure under the drift of sheets and blankets stirred, arms rowing haphazardly. Tangled in the mess, and Spike reached out and yanked, freeing a hedgehog crown of dark hair and a pale, cat-sharp face. One eye was nothing but shadow, the other hectically alight.

"Green Fairy, then. Gonna light you up," Spike said. He dipped his hand into his coat and then withdrew it, fanning three foil packets in his fingers like a magician with a card trick.

Xander sat up fast, shoving the covers down to his waist. He was all ragged muscle and tendon, strung on too-big bones. He looked absurdly younger, starvation-shrunk skin easing the few lines age had brought him. "Could have _said_ , fucker," he snapped. He twisted sideways and reached into the dimness between bed and wall – pulled out a cheap Japanned box, the black lacquer chipped and peeling, the gold-work village scene worn to almost nothing. "Let's get this show on the fucking road."

Spike's hand snaked out, too fast to follow, and twisted into Xander's hair, yanking him over sideways, stretching his neck. Spike's lips just touched the twisted quiver of tendon and muscle. "Show some respect, boy. What do you say?"

"I say shove it up your ass." Xander's voice was muffled, his mouth pressed into the scarred leather of Spike's coat. His breath hot and sweet-sour with old liquor, his hands balled into fists in the worn nap of the blanket that humped between them.

Spike twisted Xander's face up, clawing more hair into his fist and uncovering the remaining eye. The coal of his cigarette reflected there, sick mercurochrome gleam. " _What_ do you say?"

"Please, Daddy, can I have my candy?"

"That's more like it." Spike shoved him away and Xander kicked at him, foot muffled and ineffectual.

"You're such a fucking control freak."

"And you love it." The packets disappeared and Xander made a whining sound of pure frustration. "Rules, you git. Get up." Spike pushed himself to his feet and made his way across the clothes-strewn floor to a little table. He stood there, unloading cans and packets from his pockets into a tidy heap.

"Jesus, you're like some kind of demented Santa." Xander heaved the mass of bedding off himself and crawled up out of the nest. His jeans were threadbare – shiny along the seams with dirt and age, raveling at every rivet. They hung low on his hips and he hitched at them, stumbling over the tattered hems. 

Spike eyed him, taking in the long, pale torso that was mottled with bruises and one angry red scrape. "You look like a scarecrow."

"Find me some new jeans, then."

"Like that'd help. Here." Spike pulled the ring tab up on a can of peaches and peeled the lid off – set the can in front of one of the chairs. Another can – mini ravioli – joined the peaches, and then a waxed paper wrapped hunk of pan-fried bread.

Xander slumped down into the chair, wincing when it groaned in protest. "It's fucking cold."

"We'll get something hot later. Eat up, raggedy man."

"Don't quote Tina Turner at me," Xander muttered. He dug a bent fork out of a box on the table and poked listlessly at the ravioli. "Got anything to drink?"

"Just that shite they make down at the corner." Spike put a recycled soda bottle on the table. It was half full of some milky-tan substance and Xander grabbed it and twisted the lid off – took a long drink. 

" _Fuuuck_ , he wheezed, doubling over, and Spike snatched the bottle out of his hand, sniffing it.

"Christ, is that _turpentine_? Bastards."

"I'm gonna puke," Xander rasped, and Spike kicked at his leg under the table.

"Do it over the rail, for fuck's sake." 

Xander shot him an evil look, coughing hard. His eye was tearing and he wiped at it with his knuckles and then spat to one side, into a mess of crumpled newspaper. "Asshole."

"Just being practical. Hurry up with your dinner now, we've got things to do, places to go –"

"Me to exploit." Xander straightened up and stabbed a forkful of ravioli up – shoved it into his mouth. His teeth gleamed, still white and straight and perfect.

"Would you rather I sold your skinny ass to the brothels?"

"Bet _they_ have hot food."

"Bread's still warm, if you shut up and eat it." Spike flicked the butt of his cigarette over the rail, gaze tracking the little falling spark for a moment. "I told you, we'll get something hot later. After we make some dosh."

"Yeah, whatever." Xander crammed more ravioli into his mouth and Spike made a disgusted sound.

"Fucking pig."

"Just cook up. I'll be done in a minute." Xander ripped off a chunk of bread and stuffed it into his mouth with the ravioli.

"Make yourself sick," Spike muttered, but he got up and retrieved the box – opened it and began to lay out the paraphernalia from inside. Xander watched him, his eye glittering with manic interest, tracking every move Spike made. His hands shook as he scraped the last of the ravioli out of the can and ate it, licking the fork clean. 

"Peaches too. You'll get scurvy."

"Find me some vitamins. I don't like canned peaches," Xander said. He speared a couple slices anyway and ate them, licking the syrup off his lips. 

Spike lit a candle-stub with a flourish and lifted the foil packets out of his pocket, carefully peeling the edge back on one. "I'll try and find some pears or something next time."

"Applesauce," Xander said, his gaze fixed on the packet. On the dusting of bluish powder that Spike tipped out into an antique silver soup spoon. Not quite heroin, not quite coke – not quite anything, anymore, that most humans would recognize. "That looks good."

"Got it from that little rat-faced demon down by the palace fountain." Spike's name for the Buckingham fountain, since he said that name should only be used for the _real_ thing, not some 'sodding, half-arsed swimming pool with spitting sea cows'. 

"They got the fountain running again?" Xander tipped the peach can up, drinking the dregs of peach-pulp and juice in long swallows. 

Spike's gaze lingered on the smooth undulations of this throat. "Yeah, up and spitting. Maybe you can go for a swim."

"Too cold. We'll go down and see it, though, huh?" Xander clattered the can onto the table and wiped his lips on the back of his wrist, staring at Spike's hands. Spike was fussily measuring some liquid – not water – into the deep bowl of the spoon, watching the powder soak it up and turn a sort of turquoise.

"Maybe."

"C'mon, Spike – I wanna see the sea cows. Pleease? For me, Daddy?"

Spike glanced up, a swift, laughing look that made Xander grin for the first time. "Be a good boy and you'll get a treat."

"Oh, goody," Xander said, but his voice was thick with sarcasm. 

Spike finished dripping the liquid into the spoon and moved it carefully over the candle flame. It bubbled immediately, turning a pure, perfect azure. Like a bit of sky, and Spike stared down at it for a long moment, the color reflecting in his own eyes. When he finally glanced up, blinking, Xander was just sitting there, a worn-out strip of rubber tubing dangling from his fingers. His eye was welling tears, colorless streak of shine down his cheek. Spike picked up a discolored glass syringe and gestured with it.

"Come on, then."

"Yeah. Yeah, okay." Xander wound the tubing around his bicep and pulled it tight, lip caught between his teeth and Spike filled the syringe – held it up and carefully tapped out an air bubble. He scooted his chair closer to Xander – tucked Xander's arm under his own, the heat coming through the worn leather, blossoming against his ribs.

Spike caught Xander's gaze and held it, taking a slow breath. Xander copied him, his expression intent and sober. "Ready?"

"Steady...."

"Go," Spike whispered. He slid the needle into the raised, blue trace of vein in Xander's arm – carefully pulled the plunger back a fraction. Blood swirled into the drug, tinting the azure to indigo. Xander reached up and slid his free hand around the back of Spike's skull – tugged him close. Their mouths met when Spike pushed the plunger down, and Spike sucked Xander's lip free of the grip of his teeth – licked inside, tasting peach syrup and tomato and the chemical cut of turpentine. Xander shuddered under him, trembling little whine of breath pushing out of his nose, his whole body going tight and hard as the azure flooded through him.

"Ah....God...lights come on... _fuck_...." Xander shivered as the needle slipped free and Spike popped the tubing off – got his own grip on Xander's neck and kissed him harder.

"Later. Promise. _Jesus_ , there...." The taste of the drug – lemon-acid-sweet – flooded Xander's mouth and Spike groaned softly, anticipating. Xander would smell of it for hours. "My turn."

"Your turn...." Xander whispered, eye shut. He reached out and plucked the syringe from Spike's hand. "I'll do it."

"Yeah, okay...let me –" Spike pulled a length of black cloth from another pocket and wrapped it around Xander's face, covering his good eye. He knotted it – smoothed it down – watched as Xander picked up another dose of azure and fixed it, working steadily – delicately. Clearly seeing, and the empty socket of his ruined eye seemed to hold something now. Something not-quite-there. Something new.

_Something old, something new, something borrowed, something...blue…._

_'Suffer, Idat. Why do you flow white?'_

_'Shroud and wedding gown,' Idat said. 'Two gowns that are the same gown. Behold! Should you not dying, live; and living, die; surrender, fighting; and fighting, surrender? My road will give all opposites at the same time, and the same means for the opposite ends.'_

_'I know you from the veil outward, Idat,' Deborah said._

Joanne Greenberg - _'I Never Promised You a Rose Garden'_

The air outside was cutting-cold, crinkling inside Spike's nose when he breathed in, scenting. Xander huddled beside him in layers and layers – t-shirt and flannel and sweater and hoodie and big, faded Army jacket, the camo olives and tans faded to greys. The wind coming off Lake Michigan was ice-edged, even two long city blocks away.

Spike pulled out a smoke and his lighter and lit up, hands cupped protectively around the flame and Xander's cloth-wrapped head turned toward him, attracted by the light. It made Spike shiver, just a little; that blind face, tracking him so easily. _Staring_ , with nothing at all. Nothing but the weird perceptions that azure granted the occasional human. 

The ones it didn't kill.

"Got a few clients lined up. Three or four jobs and then we can go. Get something at the Pier, maybe," Spike said, and Xander turned a slow circle, looking up. Flecks of snow were pouring down out of the amber-orange haze of the sky. 

"Snow Queen's out tonight," Xander said, nodding upward, and Spike cursed softly, following his gaze. Seeing nothing in particular but getting lost, for a moment, in the giddy dance of the snowflakes as the wind curled them down and around, down and around.

"Well, we won't bother her, and she won't bother us." Spike took a hard puff of his cigarette and reached out – snagged Xander's gloved hand out of his pocket and tugged him into lurching motion down the street. 

Their 'office' was right on the Mile, in the belly of a defunct Louis Vuitton. On the left was a bar, but it was fairly exclusive to demons and Spike hadn't let Xander go in. On the other side was a burned out Gap, heat-warped steel clothing racks sticking up out of the rubble like tarnished bones. Spike pushed past the little crowd of demons who were waiting in front of the office and shouldered the doors open. The heavy glass had acquired chips and cracks and looked dusty – cobwebbed. 

Inside, it still smelled faintly and pleasantly of expensive leather, and Spike breathed it in – steered Xander toward the ratty armchair they'd scrounged from the back room. Xander sat down, pulling off his gloves and rubbing his fingers together. It wasn't much warmer inside than out. Spike lit the candle stuck to the low, mahogany display table that squatted between Xander and their 'clients', and Xander automatically turned, staring at it. Holding his fingers out to the flame, chewed-back nails and ground-in dirt in the whorls of his fingertips.

"All right – first up, step lively," Spike said and two vampires came up, growling and shoving at each other. "Enough of that, you wankers," Spike snapped, his own demon rising up and snarling, and the others subsided. "Pay up."

Both vampires dug into various pockets and deposited a litter of stuff on the table. Spike reached out and plucked up a prescription bottle of amoxicillin, a leaf-bladed silver knife and two heavy gold coins, stamped with John Smith and an Indian chief. The rest he spurned, and the vampires shoveled it all away again. 

"He says he has a seventh son of a seventh son. A virgin," the dark-haired vampire said. He had a burn across his cheekbone. "Says he'll trade for all my codeine and my original Three Dog Night recordings."

Spike mentally reviewed all the rites and rituals he knew that required that particular sacrifice. Nothing too terrible – nothing he'd have to deal with or run away from later. He nudged Xander, who lifted his not-gaze from contemplation of the flame and directed it at the other, shaven-headed vamp. "Tell him what you've got," Spike prompted. 

Bald-vamp licked his fangs. "I've – got a seventh son of a seventh son. Virgin."

Xander stared, swaying just a little. Flicking his fingertips through the candle flame. Then he grinned. "He does. Pure as the Lady's snow and twice as frigid."

" _Yess_!" the other vamp hissed, and he turned and stuck out his hand. "Done, with him as witness."

"Done." They shook on it, pleased, and pushed their way out of the growing crowd.

"Fucking spectators," Spike muttered. He leaned casually on the back of Xander's chair, letting his fingers tangle in the long hair that curled over Xander's collar and down to his shoulders. Making his claim obvious to anything stupid enough not to know already. He put his mouth down close to Xander's ear. "Should put a collar and leash on you – make sure none of these bastards think you're some stray they can just take home."

Xander shivered, heat coming off his cheek and throat as he flushed. "Woof woof," he whispered, and Spike grinned. 

"Who's next? You – ugly one in red, c'mon. Haven't got all bloody night."

"I am his Honorable Primate Och'nit-zum –"

"Don't give a flying fuck if you're King fucking Kong. Pay up, and state your truth."

His honorable whatever-the-fuck drew himself up in haughty arrogance but then deflated slightly, looking sideways at the thin, black figure that shifted restlessly beside him. Sus demon, as twisted and dark as a piece of mummified rope, with poisonous quills in a sort of mane over its elongated skull and narrow shoulders. Nasty bastards, and the holy ape had some balls, dealing with it. He gestured to a flunky, who passed over a flat steel box about the size of a paperback book. He flicked the catch and then opened it, tilting its black-velvet interior toward Spike. Diamonds glittered there, like a scatter of ice. Static flame of a ruby – green needle of emerald. 

Spike opened his fingers before he could pull any of Xander's hair out. "That'll do, then." His Honorable shut the box and Spike took it in hand – slid it into his inner pocket. "Speak up."

"I have promised free passage across the Lake for one year, provided the Sus take no offense and carry no feuds." The Sus hissed quietly to itself and Xander tipped his head this way and that, looking from one to another. His fingers were all but bathing in the flame now, and Spike reached out and pulled them back, seeing the flesh reddening.

"He says...it.... It's mostly true. Something...." Xander's fingers fluttered over the empty socket – dug in and lifted the lid, showing the damp, knotted scar tissue underneath. "Oooh, yeah....now I can see... He'll wait to catch you out, some hidden rule – slap a fine so big on your quilled ass you won't sit for a month." Xander let the lid drop and grinned at the Sus, who was looking murderous. "Better get it in writing, dude. Every last eye dotted and tee crossed."

The Sus hissed like a scalded cat, spitting invective at the Honorable Liar, and the flunkies growled, bunching meaty paws, long spurs at their wrists glittering in the candle-glow.

"Not in here," Spike snapped. He shoved his hand through the slit in the back of the chair and pulled out the Beretta pistol he had hidden there. "Cold iron rounds, gentlemen. Blessed, inscribed, and bloody painful to most of you, if not downright deadly." The room seemed to breathe, slowly and carefully, as every demon and vampire in the room took a step back. "Now, you two – Holy Orangutan and the pincushion – you've had your truth, anything else happens _outside_. Savvy?" 

Spike lifted the pistol in both hands, cigarette stuck in the corner of his mouth. The Sus for sure would suffer from the rounds the Beretta was loaded with. The other – probably not as much, but it would fuck his fancy tasseled robes to Hell and gone. Xander was slouching down in the chair, humming softly. Fingers in his pockets and they had _better_ be gripping the silver and blessed-iron knives Spike insisted he carry.

The Sus hissed something, glaring at the Honorable Liar, quills lifting and rattling, nervous tick. Then it spun on one clawed foot and slunk out of the room, gathering cohorts by the door. A moment later, with a glare at Xander, the Liar left, too, and the air in the room seemed to dim a little, the charge of imminent danger going out like a light. 

Spike leaned on the chair-back again, pistol held in one hand, the other reaching out to twist a lock of Xander's hair. "Right, then – who's next?"

Six clients, in all, because when a crowd got riled, it got reckless, and Spike was heavy with the bits and bobs of pay they'd acquired by the time he shut it down. The azure was wearing off by then, anyway. Xander was starting to hunch, looking colder and colder – little tremors running through him. If Spike waited too long, he wouldn't be able to walk, and damned if Spike was going to carry his ass through These Chicago Streets.

"Up we go," Spike said, hauling Xander out of the chair. Xander clutched at Spike's coat, head turning restlessly this way and that.

"Kinda...dark in here. Spike, it's kinda...dark...."

"Yeah, yeah," Spike muttered. He jerked at the knotted cloth at the base of Xander's skull and finally got it undone – unwound the whole thing and shoved it into his pocket. Xander blinked and rubbed his eye, looking like he'd just gotten up. "Let's hit the Pier, get you something hot."

"Chocolate," Xander mumbled, and Spike shrugged.

"Whatever. Walk, now." They made their way out of the store front and then down the street, dodging demons and vampires and humans. Less of those than there had been before, but enough, still. Spike licked his fangs contemplatively and eyed a pretty red-headed thing that was swaying past. Soon. Snow was still swirling down out of the sky, thicker than before and Xander shuddered under Spike's arm, burrowing close. Spike tucked him a little closer and contemplated taking the next scarf he saw on a handy neck, but only a fluffy orange one and a weird, glittery purple one showed, and both were too ugly for Spike to even consider stealing.

Navy Pier was as alive as it had been before the Rapture, even if the power was kept on with a mixture of magic and sugar-fuel, and the screams from the rides could be as much simple enjoyment as doomed souls crying out in torment. 

It made things lively. 

Xander made a wordless sound of delight and swayed leftward, toward the smell of frying dough. Spike turned them that way, trying to keep Xander's wobbly legs going in the right direction. He sidestepped sightseers and snarled at bands of ragged, feral children. _Take your bloody arm off trying to steal your watch. Little fucking rats._ The children snarled back but then darted away, intent on easier prey.

The gaudy, light-draped kiosk they ended up against had funnel cakes and hot dogs _and_ hot chocolate, served up by twitchy Rissa demons who were chained to their appliances. Their owner – a corpulent woman everyone called Daisy – sat in state on a raised platform at the window, her blood-shot eyes watching every move. She had powdered sugar all over her hands and forearms.

" _Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer, do...._ " Xander warbled, and Daisy turned a gap-toothed grin on him.

"My two favorite working men. Load you up?"

"Do me, Daisy," Xander giggled, all but hanging off Spike's lapels and Daisy lifted one hand, sausage fingers mashing a button on a little remote. One of the demons yelped, stung. They all wore electric dog-collar around their necks.

"Big chocolate and cake! Chocolate syrup!"

"Yes, Miss Daisy, yes, Miss Daisy," the demon chanted, assembling a funnel cake with sugar and chocolate syrup and snatching a huge cup from another demon. Whipped cream floated on top of the drink, sprinkled with curls of shaved dark chocolate.

"Enough sugar to kick-start the dead," Daisy crowed, giving a quick shake of white powder over the cake from a little tin she kept under the counter's edge.

Spike held up a long, unattractive necklace of cloisonné beads and jade, making it rattle and chime. "That do you, ducks?"

"Do the ducks," Xander muttered, picking at the gilt lettering on the side of the kiosk. Spike slapped his hand away.

"That'll do me fine." Daisy slid cake and cup across the counter – took the necklace with a little bob of her head, holding it up to the light. The demons chittered together, gazing at it. Rissa were notorious hoarders and collectors of shiny things.

"Got your grub, then? C'mon –" Spike lifted the cup while Xander balanced the plate on one hand, fingers already tearing at the sticky, fried mess.

He shoved a wad of it into his mouth and then closed his eye in pure bliss, making a little moaning sound – sucking the syrup and sugar off his fingers. "Oh, God, it's so good...God...Spike..."

"Save it for the bedroom, pet – you'll make the rabble jealous." Spike got an arm around him and turned him toward the end of the Pier. He had his own little indulgences to buy. They walked slowly through the crowd, Xander alternating between shoving pieces of cake into his mouth and gulping at the hot chocolate. The sugar would keep him on his feet and coherent while the last of the azure decayed in his blood, setting off shakes and cramps. The full-on come down, which would hit in about an hour, would be ridden out at home, in bed.

So long as they could get what they needed and get off the Pier. Spike kicked out at another vamp who got too close, and stiff-armed a human selling trinkets out of their way. The Pier was crowded tonight, the snow seeming to melt away before it touched the strings and strings of lights, dissolving into a thin smoke that made the upper curve of the Ferris wheel smudgy and indistinct.

Forty long minutes later, Spike had a belly full of blood, a bottle of Jack in his pocket and a further three packets of azure. He was lighter by a bottle of Oxycontin, a match box full of watch batteries and one of the gold coins. He'd traded a surplus Zippo for the long, thick blood-red scarf that was now wrapped snugly around Xander's throat. The tasseled ends fluttered, silky and fine and Xander petted them absentmindedly, gaze turned upward. Stepping off the Pier was like stepping into a snow globe. The heat of magic and bodies dissipated, and the snow poured down around them, hazing the distances and sugaring Xander's hair in moments. He pulled away from Spike and spun, grinning. Drunk on sugar and dopamine, riding the last of the high from the dash of cocaine Daisy had added to his cake.

"Spiiike...." Xander called, arms out, scarf floating up in the breeze of his passage.

"You'll fall and crack your head and _then_ where will we be, eh?" Spike pulled out a cigarette and lit it, hunching over the flame. "Won't be able to see a bloody thing if you dash your brains out."

"Don't need brains to see, just dope. Fuck, Daisy got some good shit this time around...Spike...oh, look –"

Spike looked up – followed Xander's pointing finger, squinting a little into the soft flannel haze of snow and fog. The flakes were whirling faster now, thicker and bigger and – _fuck_. It was getting colder. Temperature dropping by the minute, the soft shush of the snow taking on a more sibilant, icier edge. 

"Oh, fuck _me_. Not now, damnit...Xander! Let's go –" Spike grabbed Xander's hand and jerked him into motion, dragging him rapidly up the street. Watching as the winter-blasted greenery of Olive Park acquired a new patina of frost. "Xander –"

"We can't outrun her, Spike. F-f-fuck's sss-sake." Xander was shivering hard – plucking at the lapped edges of his scarf, pulling it up over his mouth and nose. He had a little smear of chocolate on the knuckle of his thumb. "M-maybe we should get a c-cab –"

"Isn't one, you bloody fool." Spike tried to walk faster and Xander skidded on ice and almost went down – lunged clumsily into Spike. Spike staggered under his sudden weight and stumbled. He righted them both with a curse, cigarette lost to the wind. Lost to the driving howl of snow and ice that slammed them back into a building wall, gun-shot cracks of ice crystals forcing themselves up through the sidewalk all around. "God _damnit_ –!"

"She's here, she's here, she's here –" Xander chanted, eye wide, his lashes spangled with snowflakes, his body shaking hard enough to chatter his teeth – make his joints creak like rotten ice. 

A seething, roaring knot of snow and wind drove down the sky at them – burst open in front of them, making them both duck and flinch, the sting of sharp-edged crystals across their skin. A mountain of glittering white fur emerged from it. Two bears. Or what might be bears, if bears had saber-tooth fangs and Freddy Kruger claws and eyes of green-burning fire. Eyes that held too much intelligence and not _quite_ enough. An intricate web of iron and silver served as harness and bridle, and the bear-things slavered around curved bits, groaning.

They pulled a sleigh. Again – only a sleigh if a sleighs had razors for runners and a body made of bone and driftwood and steel. A thousand platinum and silver rings were threaded on long braids of human hair, draped all over it's high-curved sides. They chimed together as the thing hissed to a stop. A whip of polished bone and silver wire licked out, catching Spike's cheek and he snarled, shoving Xander behind him.

The driver was all in white – milk and ivory, silver and ice, cream and alabaster and pearl. Everything but her hair, which was a torrent of static night. A river of molasses-rich darkness that spilled over one bare, opalescent shoulder and glittered with diamonds and shards of broken glass. 

_'... her skin as white as leprosy...the nightmare Life-in-Dean is she....'_

Spike felt a shiver of pure, primal dread skitter over his skin. The Snow Queen.

"Sssspike...." she purred, her blanched-red lips pouting in a coy simper. "It's been ages since you've come to see me. You shall be punished."

Spike straightened up from his half-crouch and wiped at his cheek, showing the Queen his blood-smeared thumb. She licked her lips. "What do you want, Dru?"


End file.
